


John's Jammies

by Riennynn



Category: British Actor RPF, Doctor Who RPF, Torchwood RPF
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riennynn/pseuds/Riennynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott is stuck in the States while John is back home in the UK filming, promoting, and doing business.  Being separated is never fun - what goes on in his head when he misses his husband?</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Jammies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [parapraxis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/parapraxis/gifts).



Scott climbed into the car after his flying lesson, stretching the compressed vertebrae at the base of his spine.  Too much time spent in the pilot's seat, leaning left and right to keep an eye on the instruments, he thought.

Before starting the engine, he thumbed his phone back on, idly wondering if John had left him a voicemail while he was in the air.  Strange how he could shut out all distractions in the cockpit, handling controls and communicating with air traffic control, only the ground and air ahead of him.  Back on the ground, he twisted his wedding ring and waited for the lock screen to appear.

A beep.  One voicemail.

"Hi honey, it's me."  Scott grinned as he heard John's cheerful voice.  "Hope your lesson went well!  I'm off to Glasgow Small Animal again - Gav and I are filming a segment about this little Jack Russell.  He looks just like CJ!  Poor thing has a limp..."  

He lost himself in the rise and fall of that voice, the slight tendency towards his husband's Scottish roots when back at home filtering through.  "...anyway, I miss you Scottie.  Call you when filming is done for the day.  I love you.  Bye."

Turning the key in the ignition, Scott dropped the phone into the console cupholder and headed home.

******

Laundry to do, he reminded himself, and Harris had gotten into the laundry basket again.  Had to be his fault this time; John wasn't home to blame for leaving the closet door ajar.  And here he was the one complaining about clutter.  Best not to mention it to John when he called back later, or he'd never hear the end of it.

Scott shook his head and set about retrieving items of clothing scattered across the bedroom floor.  Three socks (one under the dresser, one at the foot of the bed, and one underneath CJ's pillow), one undershirt (Harris had left that one in the en suite doorway), four pairs of briefs (all mysteriously shoved between shoe boxes in the closet), and one pair of John's outrageous superhero pajama pants made it back into the basket when a glimpse of dark blue caught his eye on the bed.  He squatted, peering underneath the edge of the duvet, and pulled out a faded Captain America tee.

The laundry was forgotten as he shook the shirt out.  John had worn this one to bed the night before leaving, the sleeve stretched from a very pleasant wrestling match that precluded even more satisfying results.  Citrus and spice, the smell of his husband's soap and shampoo, and that indescribable essence of  _John_ clung to the fabric.  He brought it up closer to his face, inhaling deeply.

Checking to see that the bedroom door was firmly closed - it wouldn't do for Harris to undo his tidying up - he toed off his socks and laid back on the bed, tucking the shirt under his cheek.  Now might be a good time for a nap.

******

Scott knew he was dreaming, but didn't particularly care.  He and John were sprawled over a thick rug in front of a roaring fire, trading sips of brandy from the same snifter.  He buried his face in the side of his husband's neck, licking the skin there and feeling the pulse beneath his tongue jump.  Large hands groped his arse and he abruptly rolled them over, pressing John down into the rug and pressing himself against a delightfully firm backside below.

He'd started up just the right slow rolling rhythym with his hips when a buzzing sound intruded.  It couldn't be mosquitoes, not in this cold.  WIth a frown, he tried to ignore the noise, returning to kissing John's shoulders, one kiss on each freckle sprinkled over the warm skin.

Buzz.

More kisses, pinning John's wrists to the rug when he squirmed.

BUZZ.

**BUZZ.**

******

"Wha..bloody hell."  Scott fumbled for the phone he'd left on the nightstand.

"Hi honey!"  Apparently filming had wrapped early; he'd only been asleep half an hour.  "Miss me?"

Bemusedly, Scott realized that he'd been humping the bunched up duvet, face buried in the Captain America tee.  He rolled onto his back and reached for his belt buckle.  "Oh you have no idea.  But you can make it up by telling me what you're wearing..."

 

 


End file.
